Howard Buck

THEIR strange eyes hold no vision, as a rule;

No dizzy glory. A still look is theirs,

But rather as one subtly vacant stares,

Watching the circling magic of a pool.

Now when the morning firing becomes tame,

Out in the warming sun he tries to guess

Which battery they’re after. “Let me see;

Which battery is there? which battery?

I wonder which…..” Again, again, the same

Returning question, idle, meaningless.

Startled, he sighs—or laughs—or softly swears;

Mutteringly something of dear names declares

In the bitter cruelty of tenderness.

The planes drift low, circling monotonously,

Droning like many a drowsy bumble-bee

Some summer morning. Only now and then

A whining shell, the mere formality

Of stupid war, calls back his thoughts again.

Suddenly near the unseen death swoops low,

Laughing and singing; and full pitifully

The startled eyes stare wide, but do not see

The whirling features of the genie foe,

Safe in his summoned cloud. The quiet skies

Tell not his surest comings. With waved wands

A mist springs from the earth, and swaying stands

A veiling moment ….. sinks …..

And there he lies

Face down, clutching the clay with warm dead hands.